


The Quiet Game

by SomewhereApart



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-23 02:10:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17071484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomewhereApart/pseuds/SomewhereApart
Summary: Robin and Regina get busy in the Underworld





	The Quiet Game

There is no privacy in this damned loft.

Not enough walls, not enough beds, entirely too many people, and as a result not a lick of privacy.

So they definitely shouldn’t be doing this here, but Robin has delightfully mischievous hands and lacks of any sort of modesty – the byproduct of years spent living (and loving) in a camp where the most privacy he was ever afforded was a thick drape of canvas.

So he is unbothered by this, by doing this here, just above where they can hear Snow and David puttering around in the kitchen and Henry and Hook playing snap at the coffee table.

They sleep in shifts here in Underbrooke, both for safety reasons and because there aren’t enough beds for three couples and a teenager. Robin and Regina are supposed to be sleeping up in the bedroom, getting some much-needed rest to power them through the rest of the day. Instead, he has his hand down the front of her unbuttoned slacks, his mouth on the back of her neck just the way she likes, and she is trying very, very hard not to think of her teenage son just down that small flight of stairs, or her fully-grown stepdaughter who is asking her husband in soft voice if he wants some tea as well, or her best friend who has just emerged from the bathroom.

This may be a “bedroom,” but as far as she’s concerned it’s damn near sex in public, and if Robin wasn’t so – _oh_ , she gasps, her hand finally rising and groping blindly back to tangle in his hair – good with his hands, she’d never entertain the idea. But he is, oh how he is, just one finger inside her now, but crooked just so, and he’s murmuring in her ear something about not making a peep as she feels very much like… peeping.

She turns her face into the pillow as he presses his still fully-clad erection into her rear, trying to stifle the soft gasps she can’t help as his finger starts to move faster, harder, and how can he be so good with just one? Just one finger and her pants still on, and she is liquid, molten, can feel her thighs starting to shake with pleasure and the effort of holding back her usual chorus of gasps and moans.

She’s not loud. She’s never really been loud in bed, but she’s never been more aware of how much noise she usually makes. Not until now when she cannot make any, when she must be silent, when she will die of embarrassment if _anyone_ in this house has any inkling of an idea that she’s up here being fingerbanged while they’re all down there having tea and cookies, _oh god_ , two fingers now and harder, sharper presses, and he’s going to make her come just like this and she’s going to have to be silent and, “Don’t stop,” she gasps, just a desperate, breathy plea, Robin’s low chuckle vibrating against the back of her neck.

“I won’t,” he swears, whispering, “I won’t stop until you let go for me, my love,” and oh god, no, he can’t say that, that will make her come. She presses her face into the pillow again, moving her hand from his hair to fist at the plush material (at least hell has good pillows), and then he’s speaking softly to her again, low enough that only she can hear, murmuring, “I wish I could see your face right now, my love; you know how much I love watching you come,” and oh shit, oh god, he’s going to do the talking thing. Her toes clench, her breath stutters. “Love watching your face as you let go for me.” No, not that. Oh, don’t say that, that makes her clench, when he talks about her letting go _for him_ , like this is something she does just for him. It’s not, but it feels sometimes like it is, like opening herself up, like letting him see her unbridled and unguarded is all for him, just for him, and so when he says it just like that, she lights up, flames out, and he _knows_ it, the bastard, he knows what that does to her.

His voice is rough around the edges, she can hear how badly he wants her when he says, “You’re so wet right now, my love, you have no idea…” and that’s it, that’s all it takes, her fingers are fisting tighter, a short, sharp moan muffled into the faux down as he continues his blissful undoing of her and she comes apart just like he wants her to. Just for him. The force of silence has her trembling, her hips jerking even more than usual, but he’s right there in her ear, still, murmuring, “Yes,” and “That’s it, gorgeous,” and “You are so bloody beautiful, even the flush of your neck is stunning,” and he’s not stopping with his fingers, is not stopping at all, is driving her higher, faster, and she can’t, she can’t be quiet, she will not be able to be quiet if he doesn’t stop, so she drops a hand down to grasp desperately at his wrist and squeeze.

He stills immediately, and Regina exhales heavily into the pillowcase, trying to muffle the sound as her body is finally able to unclench, to relax. Robin drops tiny kisses along her neck, the curve of her shoulder. When she thinks she can breathe without gasping, she turns her face out from the pillow and inhales, exhales, Robin’s fingers finally easing out of her.

She catches his hand as he draws it away, shifts onto her back and smiles at him, lifting the damp digits to her lips and sucking them clean of her. Robin’s jaw drops open slightly, eyes going even darker, and she watches his Adam’s apple bob with a heavy swallow.

Men. So easy.

His brow drops to her shoulder, pressing there as he murmurs, “This was all supposed to be for you, and then you had to go and taunt me with that…”

“Turnabout’s fair play,” she whispers back, and then, “Now can _you_ be quiet?”

Robin lifts his head, and smirks, and she falls in love with him all over again. “We’ll see.”

Regina snickers, and reaches for her pants, shimmying out of them, looking back at Robin as he lets out a slightly shaky breath and reaches for his own belt and fly.

“What?”

“This bed creaks,” he murmurs. “If we’re doing _this_ , we’ll have to take it slow.”

“Slow can be nice,” Regina breathes in response, and then Robin is shifting, crawling over the top of her and to the other side of the bed, the far side from the stairs - the spot where he can’t be seen if he stands, she realizes. And sure enough, he slips off the edge and reaches for her, helping her slide until she’s spread the wrong way across the sheets, her hips at the edge of the mattress, thighs parting as he runs warm palms down from her knees.

She watches him lick his lips, watches him take in the sight of her, watches him watch his own thumb slide down through her wetness and back up to circle her clit. He’s hardly touched it, she realizes. There had been some friction from his hand before, sure, but the brunt of her orgasm had been from that spot he was so good at thumping into until she was jelly-kneed and sweaty. So the pressure of his thumb is welcome instead of overwhelming, has her biting her lip and rocking into his touch instead of jerking against the sharpness of oversensitivity.

“Gorgeous,” he whispers, his voice soft, barely carrying to her, and she smiles. She has always known, objectively, that she was beautiful. Aesthetically pleasing. Mother had insisted upon it, even while pointing out her every flaw. But he makes her feel it, makes her feel gorgeous when they do this, tells her constantly how beautiful she is when they make love, and so for a moment, she forgets about everyone else, everything else. For a moment, it’s just them, and she melts, hooks her heel just under his rear and urges him a little closer.

“Inside,” she mouths, because she cannot wait any longer to be with him. (And because, okay, no, she has not forgotten about everyone downstairs, not really, not truly, and they should probably hurry this up.)

He nods, and situates himself, and then he sinks in slowly, inch by inch, Regina’s lashes fluttering shut at the sensation. She loves this, that first moment, the slow entry. He takes it slow, often, knows that others were not so considerate, and so this is typical for him. A slow slide in, and then, yes, a few measured strokes to make sure she’s good and truly ready for him. And then he usually switches to something sharper, something quicker, but not today.

Today they have a need for silence, and an old bed with squeaky springs, and so he keeps it slow. In, and out, in, and out, lazy thrusts, a languid enjoyment of each other that has her sighing and tangling one hand loosely in the bedsheets.

“Look at me,” he breathes, and she does, blinking her eyes open and watching as he adjusts slightly, leans forward onto his hands, her knees rising slightly at the action, hooked over his elbows as they are. The new angle is sweeter, better, has her grinding her head back into the covers on a soft _oh_ … “Just like that?”

Regina nods, and lets go of the sheet, restless fingers fluttering to his arms, coasting up from his wrists, across his forearms and back down. “Good?” she asks him softly, hoping the lazier pace is working for him, too.

He nods, then glances down her body, watches where they’re joined for a minute and then lets his gaze wander back up. She’s still half-dressed. Still in socks and her turtleneck; it’s twisted up around her belly a bit now, but it’s there. She’s very covered. And this isn’t exactly the sort of sex that will end quickly.

For a moment, she focuses on the people downstairs, listens intently to try and figure out what they’re doing, how distracted they are. They’re all playing a card game now, it seems. Something that will hopefully keep them occupied for a little while longer. But still, the idea of stripping down to her birthday suit just seems like asking for trouble. She settles for tugging the turtleneck up to her armpits, baring her black lace bra.

Robin nods encouragingly, rocks into her a little harder, a little deeper.

“On or off?” she breathes, drawing a fingertip along the edge of one cup. He has a fondness for the trappings of this world, for thin silk and barely-there lace, for the fancier lingerie in her collection. It wouldn’t be the first time he asked her to leave something on while they did this.

But he murmurs, “off,” this time, and in a thin swirl of purple smoke, the flimsy garment is beside them on the bed, her breasts bare for him beneath the scrunched grey fabric of her top. He licks his lips again, murmurs another declaration of how beautiful she is, his hips still pistoning slowly in and out of her. It feels nice, but it isn’t enough for her, not on its own anyway.

Probably not enough for him, either, unless they keep at this for a good long while. This is why they shouldn’t be doing this, here, damn near in public. But they are doing it, and it does feel nice, could feel _good_ if she’d just…

She slips one hand down her belly, Robin’s gaze following it all the way until her fingers settle over her clit and begin to rub in slow, firm circles, timing them to the rhythm of his hips. He huffs out a breath and stares and stares, watching her touch herself, watching himself fuck her, and then his throat is bobbing again, and now they’re in business. The more intense pleasure of her fingers against where she’s so sensitive provides a perfect counterpoint to the slow, languorous pleasure of his cock inside her, and soon she’s gasping softly again, biting her lip to keep from moaning.

Robin seems to be enjoying the show along with the sensations, enjoys it even more when she brings her free hand to her breast and begins to tug and roll her nipple. “So bloody gorgeous,” he murmurs again, hips moving a little faster, a little harder, the bedsprings starting to squeak.

“Robin,” she warns, and he groans and slows again, slightly, then stills entirely. Regina bites her lip. This isn’t working. “Sorry,” she breathes, but he shakes his head, and pulls out of her, dropping to his knees as she frowns. “Rob-mm!”

She claps a hand over her mouth to stifle herself as Robin does something positively wicked with his tongue inside of her, something that has her toes curling, and then he’s pushing her fingers away, flicking his tongue against her clit, and she’s groping for the pillow again. She drops it over her face, one hand gripping the edge of it as the other drops to his hair, and he’s doing things, things he should not be doing when they need to be quiet, things he knows drive her wild. Quick, sucking pulls over her clit, and then two fingers inside of her just so, and she’s twitching and gasping and oh, oh shit, oh, the contrast between the lazy fucking they’d been doing a minute ago and the sudden onslaught of mouth and fingers leaves her groping for steady ground, has her climbing the walls, scratching lightly at his scalp. His fingers move faster, harder, find just that spot and she tenses all over. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, drapes an arm across her hips and sucks harder, adds little flicks of his tongue as his fingers drive her crazy and when she’s jerking and biting the pillow and seconds from spilling over, he just… stops.

She could kill him. In that moment, poised on the edge of release and then denied it, she feels a frustration that borders on actual anger, lifting the pillow to glare down at him. But he’s already pushing to his feet, already grasping his cock and giving it a few strokes as he steps between her thighs again, and she’d much rather come on his cock anyway, so she puts the thought of mild vengeance out of her mind, and just focuses on suppressing the throaty _guh_ … she wants to let out as he sinks into her again.

She’s tighter than before, wound up and close to coming, so he feels bigger, feels better, feels like just what she needs, but still he gives her one slow thrust, a second. And then he tugs her hips a little closer, pushes himself _deep_ , and starts to take her in short, quick thrusts that have her gasping and scrambling for the pillow again. The bed is squeaking, goddamnit, she’s going to kill this _bed_.

Robin tugs the pillow away from her face, murmuring, “Want to watch you,” and she grasps at his hips to still them.

“Slow,” she breathes, and, “The bed.”

Robin exhales hard, frustration clear in the clench of his jaw, the way he presses his lips together. But then he shifts to a rhythm that’s slow, but deep, pushing in hard on the end of every stroke. The bed still squeaks but not at every thrust, every third or so maybe, a soft metallic whine. But she doesn’t think it’ll matter much, certainly not when he whispers, “Let me watch you, my love,” and “Touch.”

Her cheeks flush (they’re already flushed, and she doesn’t know why she’s blushing now, but she is) as she brings her hand down between them again, inhaling sharply as she rubs her clit. It’s aching now, she’s so close, the contact electric and ecstatic, and he’s watching, watching, her nipples tightening as she studies him studying her.

Her breath is heavy, but quiet, deep inhales, deep exhales, and she rubs faster, firmer, pressing her lips together to keep quiet. He looks up at her, lower lip caught in his teeth. She smirks – she knows that look. This may be slow, but it’s working for him, that’s for sure.

“You feel - so good,” she sighs, and his eyes drop shut, his brow knitting in focus. She’s not the only one that likes to hear the other talk. “So close… Will you keep – going – when I –”

His eyes open again, steady on her face and oh yes, he’s right there with her now. “You want me to?” he mutters, breathless.

Regina nods, and arches, grasps her nipple and tugs and gasps and sighs, “Want to – feel you – when I –” She has to clench her teeth against another low moan, and then he’s letting one free, soft and low, and hopefully inaudible to the rest of their family. His hips pick up pace, just slightly, the bed creaking softly again, again, again, but she doesn’t care, can’t care, because it’s enough, just enough, his cock inside her, and her fingers against her clit, one firm roll of a pebbled nipple and she’s coming, squeezing her eyes shut, biting her lips together, breath rushing in and out of her nose as pleasure blooms in waves and then drowns her.

He doesn’t stop, just like he promised, keeps up his steady strokes, another, again, again, again, her eyes rolling back under closed lids, her breath catching and holding, anything to keep from crying out. Her hands grope blindly for him, grasp a forearm and scratch desperately with her nails, and just when she thinks she might come again, just when she thinks she might lose hold of her breath and cry out and blow their cover, he presses into her hard, a soft grunt and shaky exhale the only evidence of him finishing inside her.

Regina lets her breath out in a slow, controlled stream, a little shaky, a bit sweaty and very well seen-to. Robin’s head is bent as he catches his breath, not quite close enough for her to reach him. She lifts a hand, combs it through his hair, and he looks up at her and grins. He slips out of her with a wet dribble she manages to whisk away with magic before it has a chance to hit the bedsheets and then they’re tugging into their pants and arranging themselves as silently as possible on the bed, limbs heavy, kisses warm and sleepy, both of them pleasantly sedated with exertion and endorphins.

They sleep, then, finally. Sack out and slumber like the dead they are surrounded by in this godforsaken place until Emma comes to wake them a while later.

As Regina rubs sleep from her eyes and Robin stretches his arms over his head with a sleepy grunt the blonde hovers, and frowns, and opens her mouth to speak, then shuts it again. She turns to head back down the stairs, and then stops, turns back.

“Spit it out, Emma,” Regina tells her mildly, voice still a bit gravelly from her nap.

Emma inhales, exhales, plants her hands on her hips and hisses, “I get that we all have needs from time to time, but _our son_ is about to sleep in that bed.”

Regina’s eyes go wide, her stomach swooping, and for once, she cannot think of anything to say in return.


End file.
